


Molly Hooper Gets What She Wants

by orithea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Reichenbach, basically little plot lots of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orithea/pseuds/orithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not something she’s done before, not with anyone else. She usually has certain steps she takes, a sequence that’s been drilled into her mind as what good girls do: a chaste kiss on the steps to her building after the first date, something a little less innocent after the second, and she’ll never invite them up before date number five. Molly rarely reaches that milestone and doesn’t like to think about the last man to get there. But all of that is thrown out of the window and forgotten, because this time is different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Molly Hooper Gets What She Wants

**Author's Note:**

> Terribly late (sorry!) Secret Santa fic for unfocusedideals.

Molly finds herself unsurprised and unashamed to be leading a man up to her flat after a first date. It’s not something she’s done before, not with anyone else. She usually has certain steps she takes, a sequence that’s been drilled into her mind as what good girls do: a chaste kiss on the steps to her building after the first date, something a little less innocent after the second, and she’ll never invite them up before date number five. Molly rarely reaches that milestone and doesn’t like to think about the last man to get there. But all of that is thrown out of the window and forgotten, because this time is different. He’s not exactly like the others; there’s been something there between them before tonight, a giddy rush she gets when she sees him and she thinks that he gets the same feeling, judging by the smile he always has in her presence. And really, after a lifetime filled with following rules and pining away, Molly is ready to simply do what will make her happy. 

Her hand shakes a little as she tries to unlock the door, full of nervous energy despite the fact that she’s sure, deep in her bones and down to her core, that she’s never wanted anything as much as she wants this. Greg laughs his slow, easy laugh—it surprised her at first how easy it was to make him laugh because he had always looked so tired and worn, incongruous with the smile that would take over his face, when she saw him before—and gives her one of those grins that make her knees wobble.

 “Steady,” he says, and puts a hand over hers so that the key slips right into the lock at last. His touch turns her giggles into a complete lack of breath, and suddenly the feeling of _want_ is even stronger, a rushing sensation that curls out from low in her belly. She turns around and pulls Greg to her, pressing him close as she goes up on tiptoe to bring their mouths together. They’ve kissed before, if the gentle brush of lips they’ve shared counts as kissing. It really doesn’t when compared to this.

 Greg has pushed her against the door, he’s nibbling at her bottom lip, and Molly feels like she could do this with him for the rest of her life and not feel satisfied. She is startled by the fact that she has been audibly moaning and realizes that she’s standing in the hall outside of her flat making out like some kind of teenager.  She reluctantly pulls away from him to open the door. When she speaks she’s breathless and sounds dazed. “Should have started doing that a long time ago, I think.”

 “Christ, yes,” is all that Greg can say in response as he follows her in.

 --- 

Molly knew Greg Lestrade before, of course, but she realizes now that she was hardly noticing him. With Sherlock gone she feels like she’s had blinders taken off and suddenly there are so many people who were standing on the periphery of his presence, suddenly brought into shining detail when no longer eclipsed by what she has to admit was always a hopeless infatuation. She thinks of him as gone, even though she knows perfectly well (better than anyone else, really) that he’s not actually dead. She thinks of Sherlock as gone because he may as well be, when it comes to her. Her hopes were laid to rest the moment he came to her and explained why he needed her, needed her to lie in order to save three people who counted. It’s funny to her now, to think that this moment that put to bed one helpless infatuation had given start to another. Because with Sherlock gone she is now able to actually see and notice the people he left in his wake.

She’s never spoken to Greg for a job (that she can remember, at least) because he has a forensics team for that, and the few times he came to Bart’s with Sherlock he was, well, with Sherlock and there was no hope of her noticing much about him then. They’d met for drinks once—Mike had invited Molly and she’d gone solely out of politeness and an inability to think up excuses on the fly so that she could duck out when he mentioned that John Watson would be along as well. John had brought Greg with him.  It had turned out to be a nice evening in spite of the initial reluctance on her part. Try as she might, she couldn’t really dislike John, because John Watson was a good man and obviously cared about her, even if it was only because he felt a bit sorry for her. Greg was more handsome than she’d realized, because, after all, she’d hardly seen him smile while in Sherlock’s company. He was charming and polite, but when they talked about their plans for Christmas a few weeks away he mentioned something about Dorset and possible reconciliation with a wife, she mentally moved on from anything that might have been forming. Greg was at that Christmas party, too, that terribly embarrassing evening that she cringed to think about even now.

After Sherlock is gone she suddenly finds herself part of a little group of friends apparently devoted to keeping John Watson sane. It is stressful at first because, well, Sherlock is sleeping in her spare bedroom at the moment and she’s terrified that she’ll blurt that out just to see John look a little less haunted. But it turns out that Mike and Greg are adept at steering the conversation away from anything involving their departed friend so she doesn’t have any lies to make and trip over. The gatherings start sad and quiet but are ultimately effective at cheering John up, and there’s always plenty of laughter after a round or two of drinks. It makes her feel less lonely to be a part of this, but it makes her chest ache to think of Sherlock who looks sad all the time now that no one can see him but her. After he leaves to prowl after the remainder of Moriarty’s web she sometimes will text him after a pub night to let him know that John is well.

When she finds herself alone at the pub with Greg after one of those evenings and he asks her if she’d like to get dinner sometime, her first instinct is to turn him down. His wife is no longer in the picture, but he’s her friend now. Molly doesn’t have that many friends and appreciates the ones she does have deeply. It would be a shame to lose that friendship if things went sour, and it’s so much harder to keep secrets from someone you’re sleeping with. She has a hard time being optimistic when considering her love life of the last few years.

She thinks of Sherlock, who will always be devoted to his work, to his mind, and—she begrudgingly admits, because it was the most obvious thing when he came to her to save him—John Watson above all other things. Molly remembers Jim; Jim who is—no, was—two people in one, and came to her with both faces. On the rare occasions that she has nightmares they take the form of a memory: lying in bed with her Jim, Jim from IT, but his expression changes and he is James Moriarty, cold and cruel in ways that Sherlock Holmes could never be, for all that they are equally brilliant.

Molly is done with brilliant. What she wants is something that was in front of her all the while, overshadowed by the brilliance. She wants someone who sees her, sees her and observes and finds the worth that is there. She wants Gregory Lestrade, so she tells him so.

\---

Once they’re in her flat they smile at each other a little shyly and Molly opens her mouth to ask if he’d like a cup of tea but in a breath he’s closed the space between them and his mouth is on hers again, his hands find her hips instantly, as though it’s all he’s thought about doing since he saw her shrug off her coat at the Christmas party over a year ago—maybe it has been, she thinks, giddy with delight.

She's worn a skirt because she never gets dressed up for work or going out to the pub, but this seemed like a special enough occasion to warrant one. Greg seems to be thankful, first for the ease it allows for his knee to slip between her thighs when he presses her against the nearest sturdy surface (the back of the sofa this time, just tall enough to brace her bottom against), then for the lack of zips and buttons when his hand moves underneath the fabric.

Molly is gasping a little, can’t remember the last time kissing someone was so exciting. “Stop,” she whispers, and he does, hands off her in an instant.

“Sorry,” he says immediately. “I’ll just—”

She interrupts him. “Oh no, not _stop_ stop, I didn’t mean—just...” she blushes and reaches to her waist to roll down the band of her tights and push them down her legs, doing an awkward dance to pull them off her feet as quickly as possible. “Those were getting in the way and I think I’d really rather have you in my bedroom than here right now.”

Greg grins, relieved. “Yeah, of course. Brilliant.”

She pulls him into the bedroom and then his hand is under her skirt again, rubbing at the damp cotton of her knickers, while her hand trembles over the buttons of her blouse. Both of them are still too busy kissing to be perfectly coordinated in their movements, and they laugh and break apart to take care of their respective clothing. Greg’s dressed smartly but simply and it hardly takes him any time to pull off his shirt, then trousers and pants in one smooth motion. He watches as Molly takes the time to fully unbutton her blouse, but then push her skirt and knickers down together and kick them out of the way with far less care. Her bra—which doesn’t match her knickers because she hadn’t exactly planned for this—is flung away with as much carelessness.

“You’re gorgeous,” Greg breathes, and she would probably be blushing if her face weren’t already flushed from arousal.

“And you’re pretty gorgeous yourself,” she says finally, pushing the duvet out of the way and sliding onto the bed, patting next to her with her hand. “C’mon.”

He joins her on the bed, hovering over her as she lies back against the pillows. “What would you like?” he asks, skimming his hands down from her shoulders, over her breasts with just a brush of thumbs against the nipples before moving down her torso and onto her hips. He keeps the left one there, stroking along the hollow of her hip bone, and sends the other trailing down to cup her mound, then part the lips and slide gently between them with his thumb.

“Oh,” she gasps, “oh, that’s—good.” His thumb works slow circles around her clit until she’s bucking against him involuntarily and absolutely throbbing with need. “Your fingers—” she squirms, “inside, _please_.”

Greg’s breath hitches and he complies, sliding one, then—after a little whine of need escapes her—two inside. He looks shocked and pleased with how hot and wet she is, clenching around him, and when his twisting fingers hit a spot that makes her pant and jerk against him as he rubs again and again, he smiles to watch her writhe.

“Fuck,” she says in awe after coming down from her orgasm. “You’re...you’re very good with your hands.”

He grins at her praise, then sighs happily when she sits up, pushes him back down in her place, and wraps her fingers around his cock. She pulls at him fast, thumb rubbing over the head at each stroke, until he groans out, “Jesus _Christ_ , Molly”.

She smiles, grabs a condom and rolls it onto him, and then hovers over him. “Alright like this?” she asks, and when he nods yes she straddles his hips and sinks down slowly onto him, both gasping.

She works her hips up and down slowly until she is fully seated and rocking back and forth against him, grinding them together. Greg is quietly grasping her hips; his face is reverent, eyes intense and mouth hanging just open, like Molly is doing something rare and extraordinary and he can’t believe that he’s part of it. They go like this for some time until Molly’s thighs are shaking, then he plants his feet against the bed and starts thrusting up into her, harder and faster than her own rhythm had been. Molly's head falls back and she rides the waves of sensation sweeping over her, not touching herself until feels Greg begin to pulse inside of her. She rubs three fingers together over her clit then and comes clenching and shuddering around him, chanting, “yes, yes, yes, _yes”_ as he bucks up into her a final time.

They clean up, then Greg gets her off once again, this time with his tongue and fingers, before they’re exhausted and curl up in bed together for the night. He falls asleep first, even with her head nestled into the crook of his arm and probably weighing uncomfortably on it. She sighs conentedly and thinks that if going after the things that she wants gets her anything as good as this, she ought to make a regular policy of it.

 


End file.
